Finding Isadora(90)

“Even before that. Remember when you phoned to ask if I’d represent Jimmy Lee? I was sitting at my desk daydreaming about you, knowing I shouldn’t. Then, for a moment, I thought you’d called because you were doing the same thing.”

“I had been. I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”

We stood about two feet apart, staring at each other in the moonlight.

“That’s why you broke up with Richard.”

I frowned. “Yes and no. Not because I thought you and I would… I mean, it’s not like we could… But it did make me realize there was something missing in Richard’s and my relationship.”

“Why couldn’t we? You and I?”

Sleep together, I was sure he meant. Men. How could they think things were so simple?

“Richard, for one reason,” I said coolly.

Certain that he’d protest that Richard and I had broken up, I was surprised when he nodded, his expression grim and almost sad. “Yeah. That’s what held me back all along, and it’s still a problem, isn’t it? I’d been trying to convince himself that if the test proved I wasn’t his father, I wouldn’t feel…”

When he didn’t finish the thought, I said, “In your heart he’ll always be your son, and you don’t want to hurt him. You and I, uh, having a relationship, would hurt him.”

We stared glumly at each other for a few minutes, then I asked, “Why did you tell me about your father?”

He gave a rueful laugh. “My last chance to drive you away? Then we wouldn’t have had to talk about this.”

I smiled a little. “Did you think it would work?”

He shook his head. “No. You’re an empathetic woman. Guess what I really wanted was for you to know, and tell me you understood.”

“I do.”

“I know. Just like I know we have to have this talk. There’s something between us. No matter how I try to deny it—or reason myself out of it—it only gets stronger.”

I nodded vigorously. “I know. And it doesn’t make sense. You’re not into serious relationships, right?”

He shook his head again. “Been there, done that, and did it badly.”

“And I want marriage and kids, fidelity, the house and mortgage, all those things you reject. Plus, I want someone to grow old with, not someone—”

“Who’s already old?” he asked dryly.

“No! I definitely don’t think of you as old. But the fact is, there’s eighteen years between us. I don’t want to be left alone in my old age, and—” I broke off and gave a rueful laugh. “See there? I had us married. I can’t help it, that’s how I think about relationships. If there’s no future potential, I’m wasting my time.”

I stared at him, lean and dangerous, vital and sexy. Hard to imagine that having sex with Gabriel would be a waste of time. Hurriedly, I added, “But of course, all of that stuff’s irrelevant because there’s Richard.”

“So how are we going to deal with this?” he said, gently touching my shoulder and turning me back toward the parking lot. Side by side, we began to walk, but this time he reached for my hand and gripped it, and I welcomed his touch. It wasn’t a sexual contact, but an acknowledgment we shared a problem and together would work it out.

It dawned on me that, despite our age difference, he treated me as an equal. He didn’t try to tell me what to do, and he genuinely valued my opinion. The feeling was heady, and yet… “I guess we should avoid each other,” I said reluctantly.

“But I don’t want to avoid you. You’re good for me. You challenge me.”

I felt even more flattered. “You challenge me too. Maybe we could try being friends?” Could I force myself to think of him that way?

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing? Hasn’t worked too damn well.”

“No, but… Maybe it’ll work better now everything’s out in the open.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound any more convinced than I was.

We headed up the beach toward the paved walkway. He released my hand, dropped our sandals on the ground, then bent to put his on. When I leaned down to do the same, he said, “Let me,” and knelt at my feet.

Resting a hand on his shoulder, I lifted one foot. He’d jammed his own sandals on over the granules of sand that clung to his feet, but he didn’t do that with me. Instead, he gently brushed the sand away. “Cold,” he commented gruffly, then cradled my foot in his hands, warming it, before he eased it into a sandal.

Such a sweet, perfect gesture. He’d never be a conventional man, not the kind who brought roses and chocolates on Valentine’s Day, but he did things like this. Things like giving me the absolutely perfect earrings just because they made him think of me. Things that were more meaningful, more romantic, than the stereotypical ones.

Slowly, caressingly, he cleaned off my other foot and warmed it, his every touch sending pulses of pleasure up my leg.

Then, rather than sliding that foot into a sandal, he rose in a surge of motion. “Damn it, Isadora.”

Those hands that had been so gentle with my feet thrust into my hair, gripping my head, tilting it back. He was going to kiss me.

I could stop him.

No, I couldn’t. Not when everything in me wanted him so badly.